


While We Survived

by Jevvica



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Pain, Torture, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-13
Updated: 2016-04-09
Packaged: 2018-05-20 04:52:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5992270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jevvica/pseuds/Jevvica
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You weren’t there!  It’s not a good story.  It’s long and it’s awful and you didn’t have to see him...see him like that.  You’ve no right to it unless Porthos decides you do.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Red_Tigress](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Red_Tigress/gifts).
  * Inspired by [You Weren't There](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5275061) by [Jevvica](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jevvica/pseuds/Jevvica). 



> Author's Notes: Companion to my story, "You Weren't There". I wasn't sure about this, but Red Tigress encouraged me and put up with my random messages and questions and emoting. And I appreciate it more than I can say.
> 
> *This is not a happy fic and contains scenes of physical torture and violence. Nothing too graphic, but it ain't sunshine and roses.
> 
> **Takes place during the war and with the possibility that Aramis did not re-join the Musketeers for it.
> 
> I own very little and absolutely nothing related to The Musketeers.

 

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

It was hard to say how long ago they'd captured him. No one thought Spanish scouts had infiltrated this far into France.

Porthos hoped he lived long enough to get word back to Athos and the French forces.

The man in front of him studied him for a long moment.

"Just tell us what we need to know. This can all be over." Porthos looked over the Spanish officer and his two men. "I do not like hitting you, señor. Truly, I don't."

"Coulda fooled me," muttered Porthos, pulling at the bindings that held him to the chair.

"Where will the French attack next?"

"No idea." The punch snapped his head back.

"Where will the French attack?"

"Couldn't say, been a little tied up." The next blow whipped it the side.

He touched the split lip with the tip of his tongue. Porthos looked up at the Spanish soldier and smiled.

"Keep it up, chico, you're finally getting somewhere."

* * *

 

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

He tried to wrap around the pain.

No breath for smart remarks now.

He focused on holding his muscles tight, absorbing the punches that pounded his stomach and sides.

Keep breathing.

Even as his lungs faltered and seized.

Keep breathing.

Athos and d'Artagnan would find him.

The light changed.

Morning?

Keep breathing.

* * *

 

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

"You think," murmured the Spaniard, "that you have known pain? You know nothing of what we can do to you."

"You don't know a thing 'bout what I've survived," retorted Porthos.

"We'll see."

Porthos had no warning of the blow that struck him from behind.

The world went grey and tilted.

When he came to, he was hanging from a rope through a loop set in the ceiling. His toes just reached the ground. He lifted his knees and bounced, but the metal and rope held. The rough fibers bit at his wrists.

It was dark by the time the Spanish returned. Their leader stepped in front of Porthos and playfully swung a whip in his hand.

Porthos' eyes were fixed on the sight.

Not just a whip.

A cat. Its many tails meant to tear skin and draw blood.

Punishment for slaves and criminals.

His heart was racing, but he forced his chin out.

The Spanish officer leisurely walked behind him.

No fear.

He wouldn't give them the satisfaction.

He wasn't a slave.

He wasn't a criminal. Not anymore.

A slap of sound and a line of fire ignited across his bare back.

Worse than he'd imagined. And he _had_ imagined it. So many hellish stories.

He clenched his aching jaw, choking on a scream.

Another crack of flame.

"Tell us."

Another.

The pain spread, licking at his sides, climbing up his shoulders.

Another.

"Tell us the location of your encampment."

His whole back blazed with pain.

He could feel blood slipping down his skin.

Smell it in the air.

"Tell us."

"Go to hell."

* * *

 

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

He pressed his swollen, hot cheek to the cold stone floor.

It felt good against his shoulder, the length of his arm.

The room was dark.

Maybe it was night.

He didn't know anymore.

* * *

 

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

Porthos couldn't help the chuckle that bubbled from his torn lips.

"Something amuses you?" Porthos let his head fall against the back of the chair he was once again bound to and tried to glare at the Spaniard through puffy eyes.

"My friend...Aramis...is going to...tear you...apart," he wheezed.

There was blood pouring down his chin.

He hoped his grin was a terror.

"Aramis'll come…"

"I hope he does," said the Spaniard as he fisted a hand in Porthos' hair and pulled. "I hope he finds you in pieces."

* * *

 

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

They were still hitting him.

The room swayed and jarred in time to the strike of leather on flesh, but he couldn't feel it.

Pops of sound.

Someone yelling.

Impact, but not pain.

Punishment.

Endless.

Couldn't remember why.

What'd he done to deserve it?

But he knew it was still happening.

 

* * *

 

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

The ground was ice.

He tried to curl up against the chill, but he felt strangely heavy.

Nothing moved right.

Wasn't it just summer...running the streets, sunlight in Flea's hair...

Where was his shirt? His mother would be cross if he came home without his shirt.

When had it gotten so cold?

He should go.

Just a rest.

Then he'd go home.

 

 

 

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

 

His friend hung by his wrists in the middle of a small room.

Porthos' bare feet barely reached the blood spattered stone beneath him.

Athos stumbled forward. He lifted limp Porthos' head and the heat he could feel through his gloves was shocking. But warm meant alive.

His face was swollen and blood-covered. Bruises bloomed beneath so much of his skin...

"Porthos? Porthos, can you hear me?" When there was no answer, he looked past Porthos to d'Artagnan. "We need to get him down."

D'Artagnan had gone strangely pale. "D'Artagnan!" Wide eyes snapped up to meet his.

"Athos…" He motioned vaguely, his gaze slipping down again. Athos gently released his hold on Porthos and stepped around his dangling body.

Porthos' back was… Athos struggled for words, for breath, for balance.

Straight cuts and welts crisscrossed Porthos' back. Furrowed wounds covered his shoulder blades and spine, reaching around his ribs. Blood and sweat colored every bit of skin that wasn't a raw, gaping slash. Strips of flesh hung in tatters.

"We need to get him out of here," whispered Athos, finally finding his voice.

"How," d'Artagnan swallowed, "how do we move him?"

He didn't know.

Suddenly, desperately, he wished Aramis was there.

"We need a blanket, something clean to wrap him in or use as a stretcher. And a wagon. But first help me get him down."

D'Artagnan untied the rope across the room and slowly lowered Porthos down into Athos' waiting arms. He guided Porthos' limp form to lay on his side.

"I'll look for a wagon. See what the others found," said d'Artagnan, slipping out of the room.

Athos carefully sliced away the ropes around Porthos' wrists. He winced at the cut and raw skin underneath.

His hands hovered, uncertain how any touch would not result in more pain.

"You led us on quite a chase," said Athos, gingerly resting his fingers against Porthos' forearm. "But I've got you. I've got you now and everything will be fine. Just stay with me."

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

A stiff tarp was used to carry and lift Porthos into the back of a wagon and horses were rehitched. It made Athos proud, how briskly and quietly everyone was moving. There'd been a low murmur of horror that rippled through the Musketeers when Porthos had been brought into the light of day. It had quickly turned to activity and determination.

"I'll ride with him," said D'Artagnan as he scrambled into the back of the wagon.

A search of the grounds had turned up nothing else.

Athos swung up into his saddle and cast another long look around the abandoned manor.

"There is no sign of anyone, Captain." Athos looked over at Theirry. "Looks like they took off in a hurry."

"I'm sure they fled as soon as they spotted us," agreed Athos. He hadn't really expected to find the monsters who'd tortured his friend lurking about, but part of him had hoped. Hoped he'd be the one to erase them from the face of the Earth. "Let's move out."

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Porthos rested on his front, so D'Artagnan lied down next to him, so he could see his face. If he woke or looked like he was in pain, d'Artagnan wanted to know.

The big man's shallow breaths brushed over d'Artagnan's cheek.

"Porthos, you're safe. I'm here. Athos is here. You're safe," he whispered. "We're leaving this place. Don't worry about a thing."

Porthos was silent and limp, moving in time with the rocking wagon. Like a doll. Like the dead.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Athos removed his hat as he entered the surgeon's tent. Given the late hour, it was very quiet. It was a large space that was thankfully empty, save the head surgeon and a few assistants.

And Porthos' form on the table where Athos had seen him lain hours earlier.

"Ah Captain, come for a report?"

"If you have the time."

"Certainly, things are quiet here for the moment. Porthos has not woken yet."

Clean and stitched, Porthos' back was still a sight. Swollen welts and raw flesh crossed several lines of stitches.

It was brutal and hard to look at.

But Athos forced himself.

The broad back still moved. Still drew breath.

"Will this cripple him?" he asked, looking over at Delon.

"Well, the wounds are extensive, but they shouldn't be debilitating. The majority of the damage I can see is to the surface. Most of the muscle is intact. It will take some time for the skin to knit. There were many places I couldn't stitch, too little skin to work with, you see. To regain flexibility and strength will take even more time. If he lives, there is no reason I can see why he could not rejoin the fight, eventually."

"If he lives," repeated Athos.

"I'll be blunt, Captain, some of the wounds are infected. He's burning with fever."

"He will live."

"I certainly hope so-"

"He is too stubborn to do less," said Athos briskly. "Please notify me immediately if anything changes or if he wakes. I'll be by again in the morning."

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

"Thierry thinks we should send another search party," said d'Artagnan, squinting against the early morning sunlight.

"And look where?" D'Artagnan shrugged and Athos shook his head. "We have no leads, no trail, and my best tracker is-"

A low roar echoed across the camp.

He stopped, his head snapping around to find the sound.

It was coming from the surgeon's tent.

Porthos.

He was running before he thought to do so, d'Artagnan close behind.

The tent was a confusion of voices and men, uncertain and uncomfortable. Several Musketeers had gathered, watching uneasily.

Athos pushed through them and felt his focus narrow.

"Aramis!" cried Porthos. He thrashed on the surgeon's table, fighting against the assistants holding him down.

Wide bands of cloth had already been secured to the legs of the table.

"What is this?" snapped Athos. He rounded on the head surgeon. "Delon?"

"We're attempting to restrain him. He's going to pull out all his stitches or worse."

"You were supposed to send for me if he woke up! You cannot tie him down."

"I don't see-"

"He was bound! For days!"

"He isn't aware! He is mad with fever!"

"You think he doesn't know what you're trying to do to him?"

"I doubt very much-"

"Get away from him."

"How else do you propose…"

"You will not-"

Athos broke off as Porthos let out a hoarse cry, a dim facsimile of his normal bellow, choked with a sob. _And his whole world went red._

"I am the surgeon in charge of-"

Athos let out a snarl, grabbed the nearest stand and hurled it over. Basins and bandages scattered across the ground.

"You. WILL NOT. Tie him. Down." He panted as though he'd run a great distance. "If you and your assistants are too incompetent and cannot handle him, then I will assign you someone who can. If I find out you have disobeyed me in this-" Athos took a deliberate step toward Delon. "Do you understand?"

The surgeon swallowed and nodded.

Athos turned on his heel walked to Porthos, men parting around him like water.

Porthos' hands scrabbled at the wood, unable to crawl away or push himself up. His movements were fading and weak.

Athos moved to the head of the table and caught his hands, held them easily.

"Aramis." Porthos' voice was barely more than a whisper now. "Aramis."

"No. I'm afraid you'll have to make do with me," said Athos as calmly as he could. He couldn't let the men d'Artagnan was herding away hear his voice tremble.

He did not want Porthos to know how the sound of his futile calling broke his heart. He squeezed Porthos' hands. "You need to calm down. I am here. I will stay with you."

Porthos fell still, his rasping breath too fast.

Athos wanted to believe it was the sound of his voice, the comfort of his touch.

But there was no recognition in Porthos' eyes.

His fingers limp in Athos'.

No sign he heard Athos at all.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Athos rolled a cup between his fingers and pondered opening another bottle of wine.

After Porthos had fallen into a fitful sleep, Athos found several Musketeers lingering suspiciously close to the surgeon's tent. Alain had offered to spell him and keep an eye on Porthos. Athos had accepted and returned to his tent.

He'd have to set up some sort of rotation.

Yet another thing to worry about.

Before he could get up to find another bottle, d'Artagnan stepped into the tent. He stood and waited until Athos motioned him to a chair.

Truthfully, Athos had expected him sooner.

The younger man eyed him for a long moment before he spoke.

"You can't…Athos, you're the captain."

"I know. My behavior was inexcusable, captain or not. I will make my apologies to Delon and his staff." Athos rubbed at his face. "I don't know what came over me."

"I do," said d'Artagnan lightly. "And I don't blame you for it. At all. But you can't be-." Athos flinched and d'Artagnan pressed on. "France needs Athos. Smart and level. If we need a hot-head, let it be me."

Athos snorted, a twist of his lips that neared a smile.

"I don't have to _let_ you. You usually find your way there, just fine." D'Artagnan grinned, but it faded.

"Should we send for him?" Athos didn't need to ask who.

"No."

D'Artagnan frowned at him and then paced. One end of the tent to the other. Regarded him again as he came to a stop. He crossed his arms. Then uncrossed them.

"Are you sure?"

Athos fought the urge to sigh.

How many times had he picked up pen and paper to do just that? Chosen the words he'd use. Thought about which courier would be the fastest.

"It would take weeks for the message to reach him and for him to arrive here, if he chose to do so. By then..." His voice nearly caught and he had to steady it. "Porthos will be on the mend. Or he won't. And I do not want him to come all this way to only find a grave."

D'Artagnan looked away sharply, jaw tight. Athos waited a moment before he went on.

"Aramis made his choice. We may not like it or agree with it, but we must abide by it. Find a way to live with it."

The young Gascon shook his head, avoiding Athos' gaze.

"How could he just...I could never…" He broke off with a snarl and rushed out.

Athos slumped forward wearily.

"No," he whispered to the empty tent. "I'm sure you wouldn't."

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gods, this story is hard.


	3. Chapter 3

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Athos tried to read the letter from Treville for the third time before throwing it down in disgust.

He couldn't settle.

Couldn't focus.

He and Delon had both made their apologies. He for his outburst and disparaging the medical staff. Delon for not thinking through his plan of action. He'd promised to get Athos at once if anything with Porthos changed.

He'd promised.

But it had been days with little change for Delon to report.

Athos couldn't sit idle in a medical tent. He had a regiment to run. A war to survive. Men to return to their families.

The world would not stop for one soldier.

Athos couldn't stop for one brother.

But how did he requisition supplies and fill out duty rosters and supervise drills and pretend that the oldest friend he still had wasn't lying across camp, silent and alone?

He could not settle.

He gathered up his letters and reports.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

The surgeons had moved Porthos to a cot at the edge of the tent. The big man barely fit, his feet hanging off one end. Athos sat down and picked up the hand that slipped off the edge. Porthos' skin was still too warm, but not so bad as it had been.

He tried not to think too long on that day. When Porthos had stretched and shifted, restless and burning. Unable to find any relief from his fever. Unable to recognize the voices and men around him. Or that night, when his breathing had faded to a slow wheeze and Athos had waited for them to stop all together.

But he'd survived the night. And the next. And the next.

Athos knew that beneath the thin fabric draped over his back, the wounds were scabbed and healing.

He let his fingers tangle with Porthos' as he leaned forward to examine the sleeping face. Porthos' cheek was mashed against the cot, breaths deep and even. It was so typical, that Athos could almost let himself relax.

It was easy, when Porthos slept, to believe that he was better. And physically, he was. But when he was awake…

Athos shook himself. He lay Porthos' hand back on the cot and took up his papers.

The work must continue.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

* * *

Days passed in a blur of drills and missions and scouting runs. Every time d'Artagnan had a chance, he dropped in to check on Porthos.

He was lying on his side, braced by folded blankets. Delon said it was good to reposition him now and then.

Bruises had faded to a yellowing green. The swelling in his face was down, which only revealed how much weight he'd lost.

It hurt him to see Porthos like this. Porthos was life and laughter and noise. Not this mute husk.

He crouched down and forced a smile to his lips.

"Hello, Porthos. How are you today?"

Vacant eyes looked through him. He shifted uncomfortably.

"Just got back from scouting the hills to the south. Nothing much to report, but Athos will be expecting me. I should get going."

Porthos blinked slowly. There was no spark in the dark depths. D'Artagnan ran a hand roughly through his hair. "I'll come by again later, okay?"

He stood to leave and looked down.

Porthos didn't move.

D'Artagnan tried to remember feeling this helpless.

He thought of rain and blood mixing with mud and wondered if faster wasn't better.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

D'Artagnan gave his report. And went quiet.

Athos watched him. Took in the lines forming around his eyes. He was too young to look so distraught.

There was no protection for any of them in war.

"What else?" D'Artagnan's gaze snapped out of whatever middle distance he's lost himself in and looked at Athos guiltily.

"I stopped in to see Porthos."

"And how did you find him?"

"I didn't." D'Artagnan surged to his feet with nervous energy. "Whoever that is, it isn't him."

"It is. We saved him and-"

"Did we?" interrupted d'Artagnan.

"And what do you think we should have done?" asked Athos carefully. "Left him there? Let him die?"

"No. God, no." D'Artagnan raised his eyes to the ceiling before looking at Athos. "It's just...when I look at him...I don't see Porthos. I don't see anyone I recognize. He's not there."

"Of course he is. He just needs time." Athos leaned forward. "If he'd divulged the information they wanted, they would have killed him. And there have been no reports of any of our troops being ambushed or supply routes being disrupted. Have you seen anything that would suggest the Spanish know our positions?"

"No. So he didn't give anything up."

"So it would seem. For three days, they tortured him and got nothing. That kind of fortitude doesn't come without a price. Porthos had to protect himself somehow."

"Hide inside himself," realized d'Artagnan. "Hide what he knew."

"He is one of the most willful men I have ever known. He does not know how to give up. I know he's in there somewhere."

"What do we do?" questioned d'Artagnan.

"Wait. Let him know he's safe. He waited for us for days. I will give him as long as it takes."

D'Artagnan chewed his thumb thoughtfully, but he no longer looked destroyed. Eventually, he gave Athos a tired smile.

"When did you become the optimist?"

Athos snorted.

"No one is more unsettled by the development than me, I assure you. Now get out. Go get some rest."

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

* * *

Athos looked up from the stack of unopened messages on his table when Delon entered his tent a few days later.

"Ah Captain, would you have any time tonight? I think we can remove Porthos' stitches now. I don't expect any trouble, he's been most pliant. However, it would probably be helpful to have you present."

"Of course. I'll bring d'Artagnan as well."

That evening in the surgeon's tent, Porthos looked awake.

His eyes were open, but there was no reaction or recognition in them. Athos swallowed down the ache those empty eyes stirred in his chest.

Delon cut the stitches with a small knife and then took up a pair of tweezers.

The moment he began tugging the stitches free, Porthos came to life.

He snarled and tried to roll away.

"Porthos!" Athos grabbed one of his arms and d'Artagnan seized the other. They held him down as Delon continued his work.

The big Musketeers growled and twisted. He pulled at his arms, struggling to free them.

"Porthos, stop. You're going to hurt yourself. It's okay, you're okay," said d'Artagnan. "We're just getting the stitches out. You'll feel better then. It'll be okay." His litany was continuous.

Athos tried not to think about easy it was to restrain him. It should have taken six men.

By the time all of the stitches were removed, Porthos was limp. His eyes were squeezed shut, gasping breaths hissed through his clenched teeth.

"It's over, it's done, Porthos. You're alright." D'Artagnan reached out, but Porthos whimpered and turned away. He listlessly curled up and buried his face in his hands.

Trying to protect himself.

D'Artagnan looked like he'd been slapped. His eyes were full of anguish when he looked up at Athos.

"It isn't you, d'Artagnan," said Athos. "He knows you wouldn't hurt him." The young man pressed an unsteady hand to his mouth and backed away from the table.

"Does he?" It was barely a whisper.

Athos didn't try to stop him when he fled from the tent.

"Well," breathed Delon. "That was a bit surprising." Athos narrowed his eyes. "Come now, Captain. That was the most life he's shown since his fever broke."

Athos looked at his healing back. The puckered beginnings of scars.

"Porthos doesn't know how to quit fighting."

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

D'Artagnan stayed back in the shadows and watched.

He couldn't bring himself to enter the tent.

Not since Porthos had made that horrible broken sound and pulled away from him. Feared him.

Athos read aloud from a report, detailing the new herd of cattle that should be arriving soon. He made some comments that d'Artagnan couldn't hear and then moved onto some other paper. Possible plans for an offensive strike, from the sounds of it.

D'Artagnan could tell from the way Athos' face went stony that he didn't like it. He shook his head and looked at Porthos.

"I don't suppose you'd like to offer your opinion?"

He knew Athos missed Porthos. Missed his tactical mind and grounded way of thinking. His good advice and the way he _knew_ Athos.

D'Artagnan winced at Porthos' slack expression and continued silence.

Athos' lips quirked wistfully as he reached out and patted the back of Porthos' hand.

"Perhaps tomorrow."

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo


	4. Chapter 4

* * *

 

"D'Artagnan, you need to come with me."

D'Artagnan looked up as Alain jogged toward him.

"Why? Is something wrong?"

"Porthos just...sat up. I think he's..." Alain's hands fluttered in frustration. "Awake? Really awake?"

"Where's Athos?"

"He's ridden to Pau. Some meeting with the generals."

He cursed. He'd forgotten that Athos was not due back until tomorrow night.

There was only him.

Alain was looking at him strangely. "Do you have some other orders? I'm sure the Captain would understand..."

"Uh, no. I'm coming."

D'Artagnan took a deep breath before he stepped into the tent he'd been too afraid to enter for days.

Porthos was sitting on the edge of his cot, hunched over. Healing scabs and livid scars lined his bare back.

"Porthos?" said D'Artagnan cautiously. He moved slowly and smoothly.

_He knows you wouldn't hurt him._

He knelt down.

D'Artagnan expected anger or fear. He'd been ready for it.

Nothing prepared him for the utter heartbreak on Porthos' face. Tears rolled down his cheeks.

"Porthos, what is it?" The big man didn't acknowledge him. Unfocused eyes saw something known only to him.

"Please...don't," d'Artagnan whispered. He reached out and held Porthos' face, thumbs wiping at tears that didn't stop. "I'm here. You are safe. No one is going to hurt you. I promise, Porthos, I _promise_. I will gut anyone who tries." He let his fingers smooth over cheekbones that were too pronounced under hollowed eyes.

He almost wished for the blankness.

Here was evidence Porthos was aware, but he looked crushed. Hopeless.

"I know you're in pain. And I wish...I don't know what you need," d'Artagnan lamented. "I don't know what to give you. But I am here. And I'm not leaving. I'm not leaving you, Porthos."

For a second, Porthos' dark eyes focused on d'Artagnan's. And then they fell closed and carefully, slowly, Porthos tilted forward enough his forehead rested on d'Artagnan's shoulder.

D'Artagan nearly broke down in sobs.

He gently threaded his fingers through Porthos' hair, desperate to hold him in a way that wouldn't hurt or trap. "I'm here," d'Artagnan repeated thickly. "I'm right here."

 

* * *

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

When Athos rode into camp the next evening, d'Artagnan was waiting for him.

"What is it?" asked Athos, swinging down from his horse.

"It's Porthos." Athos stepped very close, cool eyes searched his face.

"Did something happen?"

"He...he sat up. Awake, but different...he...he was crying. He never said anything, didn't make a sound, but...he saw me. I swear to you, Athos, he looked at me. Knew me."

"And he said nothing?" D'Artagnan shook his head.

"He just wept. Cried himself out and fell asleep. That was late last night."

"And then?" D'Artagnan frowned.

"He was awake today. Still won't talk, but...he's in there. I can see it now."

Athos stared at him and then gave a sigh.

"That is good news," he said with a smile, but he still looked troubled.

"What happened in Pau?" Athos glanced around.

"There is talk," he said quietly, "of a mission into Spain. Uriz. There is a major munitions supply there, reportedly."

"You don't seem very convinced." Athos' face was unreadable.

"It does not matter. The King has had ordered us to be ready to move south. Perhaps as early as the end of the week. And the King does not rely upon my opinion."

"Was Treville there?"

"He was."

"And?"

"The benefit could be huge. A crippled Spanish army early on...if we destroy that magazine...this could all end a lot sooner than anyone anticipated. He thinks it is worth the risk." Athos shook himself and moved toward his tent. "We have the week to prepare."

 

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

After a quick meal, Athos gathered a pile of accounts and letters and moved to the medical tent. Porthos was sprawled on a cot, asleep. Athos pulled over a chair and regarded his friend.

He was wearing a shirt.

Before, his back had been weeping and raw. And when he'd shown no awareness, it had just been easier. Easier for the surgeons. They'd cover him with a light blanket, but there was no need for a shirt.

He'd been moveable and compliant. Drank when urged, moved when prodded.

But there was no spark. Nothing that made him _Porthos_.

Athos reached out and touched the soft material with cautious fingertips.

A shirt.

Athos needed d'Artagnan to be right.

He sat back and opened a letter. And another.

The pile next to his chair grew.

Requests for twenty sacks of oats.

Inquiry about feed for the newly arrived cattle.

Scouting report from the southeast.

He read over the missives until he felt the weight of a gaze and looked up.

And looked again.

Porthos was watching him.

Not just staring at nothing, but looking at him with recognition.

The papers crinkled in his clenching fists and he forced them to relax. The press of questions and fears and words and worries threatened to choke him.

"Porthos?"

Porthos lifted an eyebrow and gave Athos such a look, he felt ridiculous for asking.

Porthos was still here. Still with him.

And he let out the breath he'd been holding. And the fear that had been strangling him for weeks, ever since Porthos had disappeared, loosened its grip on his heart.

"I'm glad to see you, my friend," he whispered.

Porthos stared at him a moment and then nodded. He grimaced and shifted, resting his chin on his fist. Then he looked at the wrinkled reports in Athos' lap and back up to his face.

Expectant.

Athos looked at all the paperwork that Porthos was clearly interested in. And smiled.

Then he proceeded to read the dispatches out loud.

And Porthos listened.

 

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

* * *

 

A messenger galloped into camp five days later and handed a sealed parchment to Athos.

Athos nodded his understanding.

He turned and walked to his tent. He was rolling up a map when d'Artagnan followed him in.

"We're riding out tomorrow. Let everyone know the plan is moving forward." He paused. "I have to tell Porthos." D'Artagnan winced. "He cannot accompany us. I'm not certain he could walk across the camp, let alone ride for hours. This mission has to be swift and precise."

D'Artagnan's brow furrowed and he looked pained.

"Do you disagree?"

"What? No. I don't envy you telling him, that's for certain. It's something else." Athos raised an eyebrow and waited. "If we die," asked d'Artagnan, "who will look after him?"

Athos looked at the wood grain beneath his fingertips in detail.

"Porthos is rather good at looking after himself. But I've explained to Treville. He'll make sure Porthos gets assigned somewhere."

"Back to Paris?" Athos lifted his head.

"I don't think I need to tell you how little Porthos would like that plan."

"I know." The young man chewed his thumb. "If he loses us...I wrote to Constance. Told her that if...someone needed to know."

"You were not wrong to do so," said Athos. "It is a comfort. Knowing our friends will watch over him, if we cannot."

 

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

Porthos was standing next to his cot, rolling his shoulders, stretching his arms. He was unsteady and tired easily, but it was good to see him moving around and seemingly without much pain.

He was still unsettlingly silent. Sometimes he would sit and stare for hours, but it wasn't vacant, like before. Porthos was clearly thinking through something. Athos could relate.

Attentive eyes snapped up to greet him.

"We've been ordered on a mission," said Athos. Porthos' head tilted. "Tomorrow, I will take twenty Musketeers for a strike into Spain." Athos spread out the map on a cot, pointing to Uriz. "There is a large store of weapons there. We mean to destroy it. We will rendezvous with another company here." He traced a finger down to Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port. "From them on we will travel to Uriz." He looked up at Porthos. "It's just across the border. All told, we should be back here in two or three days."

Porthos crouched down and took in the map, the routes, the distance.

Athos didn't want a fight. He didn't want to point out all the reasons Porthos could not come. All the things that would make him feel weak and broken.

"It would ease my mind, knowing you were safe here."

Porthos looked up at him.

Athos gazed back. Studied how thin his face was beneath an unruly beard. The lines around his eyes and how fiercely they shone.

He wondered what Porthos saw. Did he look as worn and ragged as he felt?

Porthos rolled up the map. When he stood up and handed it back to Athos, he gave him a soft nod. He didn't look angry, just resigned.

"You've done a great deal," murmured Athos. "It's only fair the rest of us do our part."

Porthos rewarded him with the smallest of smiles. Wistful and fleeting. But a smile that Athos would cherish for days to come.


	5. Chapter 5

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Athos watched as Porthos moved among the men as they readied to depart. He looked...better. He'd shaved and trimmed his beard. He had a shy grin for the gathered men. Friendly back slaps and handshakes. Athos could not miss how much his presence cheered the other Musketeers. Porthos ruffled d'Artagnan's hair and walked toward Athos, who had already mounted his horse.

He didn't miss the grimace as Porthos reached up to him, but his hand was solid in Athos' grip.

"Come back."

Porthos' first words in weeks were little more than a rasping whisper.

But it rolled through Athos like a wave. He swallowed.

"I will do my best."

Porthos squeezed his hand and let go.

Athos turned his horse away from camp and down the path.

He heard his men following.

He didn't look back.

 

* * *

 

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

 

It felt wrong.

It was too easy.

Too deserted.

Athos insisted they watch the buildings.

It added several hours to their mission, but he didn't care. He wanted to make sure.

There was not the kind of traffic in and out that would suggest this held a major cache of supplies for an army at war. There no activity at all.

Under the cover of darkness, he sent d'Artagnan to get a closer look.

There was no munitions store.

Either it had been bad intelligence or the weapons had been moved, but there was nothing.

Athos ordered their withdrawal. It took twice as long in the dark of night, but he dared not camp in Spanish territory. They followed the road and kept watch for the attack they were all waiting for.

Dawn stalled into a dim morning, heavy with clouds and rumbling thunder. A storm was coming.

A stone overhang afforded them some shelter. It couldn't be called a cave, but it was better than plodding through the steady downpour that began just after they unsaddled the horses.

Athos seriously doubted anyone would come looking for them in this weather. But it didn't ease his mind. The mission was a waste. They were behind schedule and not entirely certain as to their location. They had to be near the border, but he suspected they were still in Spanish lands.

They weren't safe here.

Athos watched the pouring rain.

He never should have agreed to this mission.

D'Artagnan leaned against the wall of stone next to him, hands tucked under his arms.

"We're not late," said d'Artagnan quietly. Too gently. "There's no reason for him to expect us yet."

Athos kept his face neutral and said nothing.

It was more than that.

It was this whole mangled business.

He was the captain.

He needed to be better.

But the calm was harder to maintain the longer the storm continued.

Darkness fell and the Musketeers and additional soldiers bedded down for a cold, damp night. Athos set a round of watches and tried to settle for a little rest.

But the anxious twist in his gut wouldn't let him relax.

"We said two or three days, right?" Athos tilted his hat back enough to glance up at d'Artagnan.

"Yes." The young man pressed his lips together.

"We're still not late," said d'Artagnan.

"I know."

D'Artagnan wasn't wrong.

There was little else to say.

 

 

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

 

By the time they made it back to camp, they _were_ late.

The rain had continued for another day. And then the ground was a sodden mess that made travel torturously slow.

They were further delayed in Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port by maddening meetings and reports about the failed mission. Theories and excuses and contingencies.

Athos was exceedingly proud of every moment he coolly answered the same questions and gave the same information without killing anyone.

The sun was setting on the fourth day when they trudged into the Musketeer camp, muddy and weary.

Porthos was waiting for them, a sentinel at the edge of the tents. Athos swung down from his horse and handed the reins over to a groom.

He turned back in time to see Porthos release d'Artagnan from a bear hug and turn to him.

It looked like Porthos hadn't slept for days. He was still too thin and his face was lined with worry. And the twisting knot of tension at Athos' core tightened.

Athos was the captain. He was supposed to be in control and in charge. Confident and collected.

But he wasn't.

He let Porthos fold him into his embrace.

"I'm sorry," Athos whispered against his chest. "Porthos...I'm sorry." He wasn't certain what he was apologizing for. Being unable to keep them all together? The torture? Leaving him behind? Making him worry? The rain? All of it? But he couldn't seem to stop. "I'm sorry-"

Porthos pushed him back and frowned at him, big hands still on Athos' shoulders.

"Alright?" asked Porthos.

It was rough with disuse, but Athos had missed the sound of Porthos' voice so much. He couldn't find an answer. Porthos' face softened. "Nothin' to be sorry for."

"We both know that is not true," said Athos finally.

"Nothin' you can change," amended Porthos.

"I shouldn't be...I'm not-" He broke off as Porthos slapped his cheek with no real force and a great amount of fondness.

"I'm still here," Porthos said firmly. "We keep goin'."

Athos stared at him. And inclined his head.

"So we will."

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

The day was bright and the sun haloed in the dust kicked up by sparring Musketeers, including Porthos.

D'Artagnan watched closely, but everyone was careful. No one pushed too hard or landed too strong a blow.

It didn't take much to see that the restraint was wearing on Porthos' patience.

"What did Delon say?" D'Artagnan turned at Athos' low voice behind him.

"His back is pretty well knit, not much danger of anything reopening. No reason to keep him from it," said d'Artagnan with a shrug. "Said it'll be a while before he's as strong."

They watched for a few more minutes, wincing as a swing caught Porthos across the face. He gave a sharp grin and went after his partner with a growl they could hear from where they stood.

"For a time, I was...concerned." Athos paused. "That they'd beaten all the fire out of him." D'Artagnan snorted.

"Doesn't seem to be a problem."

"Which is why you're going to see to his rehabilitation."

"What? Me?!" Athos raised an eyebrow.

"You know him. You know what he can do. And you know when to stop him."

"Stop him?"

"He'll push too hard. Want to be fighting ready."

"And you think _I_ can rein him in?"

"There is no one else I trust to do it." D'Artagnan studied him. Athos studied Porthos. "There are things I have not given enough attention to. This war will not always be a waiting game. That mess in Uriz might have been much worse. Instead of three days of rain and mud, it could have been twenty dead Musketeers." Athos shook his head. "I've allowed others to make decisions that affect this regiment. I have been both distracted and uncertain." Athos finally looked at d'Artagnan. "It cannot continue."

"We're still here to help you, Athos," reminded d'Artagnan. He hated the idea of Athos pulling away.

"I know," said Athos calmly. "And this is. You will be my peace of mind." Cool eyes turned again to the training soldiers. "At least when it comes to him."

"I'll remind you of this," said d'Artagnan, "when he eventually takes me apart for trying to hold him back." Athos gave a short, surprised huff that was nearly a laugh. He squeezed d'Artagnan's shoulder as he turned away.

"I look forward to it."


	6. Chapter 6

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

"Come on, Porthos. Let's get some food." The big man shook his head.

"Nah, I'll go a few more rounds. You go on." D'Artagnan fought the urge to sigh. They'd been sparring with some of the other men all morning. Just like they'd been doing for weeks. Porthos was there every day. Every hour of every day, if he could get away with it. No breaks for meals or rest that wasn't forced on him.

And he was good at evading, given the relatively small size of the camp.

D'Artagnan would be impressed if he wasn't so exasperated.

He'd found Porthos unloading wagons. Mucking out the paddocks. Once, he'd found him sweat soaked and exhausted, surrounded by enough chopped wood to supply the entire camp for days.

That hadn't been a good day. D'Artagnan had gotten angry and Porthos had gotten silent.

"I'm hungry. And you're not going to make me eat alone, given everyone else has probably already had lunch." Porthos frowned at him.

D'Artagnan waited.

"Fine." He sheathed his sword and followed d'Artagnan into the heart of camp and the area set up as a mess.

D'Artagnan waited until most of the bread and meat had been consumed before he risked the conversation he knew had to happen.

"You can't keep doing this."

"Doin' what?"

"Working yourself to death. Not eating."

"I'm fine. I've survived worse."

"I know!" exclaimed d'Artagnan. "I know you have, but you don't have to. You don't have to push and fight and do without."

"Says you?" asked Porthos. "You think I don't know Athos set you on as my keeper?"

"Only because he can't do it himself." Porthos frowned, but it looked like worry.

"He has more 'an enough to handle."

"Athos just wants you to be okay. Fit and ready," said d'Artagnan quietly. "Not killing yourself trying to do it too fast."

"I don't-" Porthos huffed, jaw tight. He leaned forward, but kept his eyes on the rough table between them. "After Savoy and all those Musketeers died...Ar- Aramis... was, well, he was a wreck. But the part he hated most...people looked at him different. The lone survivor. They didn't think less of 'im, but he felt separate. I thought I understood that. I've always been different." Porthos gave a mirthless laugh. "But now...it's the way they're lookin' at me. The one who got captured and nearly whipped to death."

"No one...has anyone said anything? I'll end them. I'll-" Porthos' hand came across the table and pulled him back down to the seat he hadn't even realized he'd left.

"Easy. It's not like that. If it were, I'd handle it myself, yeah?" D'Artagnan nodded and tried to calm his pounding heart. Just the idea that anyone would doubt Porthos or his strength was enraging. "I just want to get back to normal. Not an invalid. Not a glass bottle everyone's handlin' all careful."

"I'm out there with you every day. I'm pretty certain no one is holding back." Porthos' eyes dropped to the table again, brow furrowed. "I mean it. And to prove it to you, I'll kick your ass tomorrow, just to make you feel better." When he lifted his head, Porthos gave him an appraising look.

"You mean you'll try." D'Artagnan smiled.

"You better believe it."

 

 

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

 

The Spanish were gathering at the border. It looked like a major offensive was about to begin.

Athos had conferred his lieutenants. They'd made a plan and coordinated with generals. He was satisfied with it. That would probably change, when they rendezvoused with a larger force and fell under someone else's command, but for now, he was settled.

But for one thing.

When he stepped into Porthos' tent, he was sitting on his bedroll, sharpening his sword. He looked up at Athos expectantly.

"There was one other matter I wanted to discuss with you," he said. "About you going with us when we leave camp." Porthos' face froze and then went carefully blank.

"Is there a chance I won't? Captain?" Athos bristled at the weight on the title.

"I won't send soldiers who are unfit into battle. Not even you."

"You think I'm unfit?"

"I think I don't know. There are things we have not talked about." He expected anger, or at the very least, resistance. To Athos' surprise, Porthos laid down the sword and looked up at him.

"What do you want to know?"

Truthfully, he didn't want any of it. He didn't want to know exactly how Porthos had suffered or how much of it he recalled.

"Just start at the beginning." Porthos took a long, deep breath. He thought for a moment before he began.

"Woke up tied to a chair. Got asked a lot of questions about the location of our troops. Plans. Attack points." A brief flash of anger. "I didn't tell them anythin'."

"I know." Porthos nodded and paused.

"I remember when they brought out the whip. After that…" Porthos shifted. "Flashes. Pieces. Like a dream. Stuff that couldn't have been real." Athos swallowed and kept his voice even.

"What's the first thing you remember after that?"

"Your voice. You weren't talkin' to me, exactly. It was a bit like when Aram-" Porthos broke off, lips twisted in a grimace. "Like someone praying," he continued. He suddenly fixed Athos with a sharp look. "You take up prayin', Athos?"

"No," snorted Athos. "But I would read. Missives, orders, reports." Porthos nodded absently. "What else?"

"D'Artagnan. Talkin', but too fast, but...I couldn't...he was upset." Porthos frowned. "And then you again. Reading, but this time I understood it all. Troop movements and provision requests. It made sense. And you looked at me…" Porthos studied him. "You looked at me like I was a surprise. You said my name like you weren't sure I was real. Like I wasn't lyin' right in front of you." The big man looked down, fingertips running over fading scars around his wrists. "I realize now, maybe I hadn't been. With you, I mean."

Athos settled next to Porthos with a soft sigh.

"You weren't. You weren't really aware. Awake, but…empty."

"For how long?"

"Too long."

They sat in silence, Porthos a solid presence next to him. The big man had filled out, no more hollowed eyes. He smiled and worked and advised. But he was quiet. And he didn't laugh. Not like he used to. No booming roar that carried across the camp.

Athos had been foolish to hope that things would remain untouched.

That any of them would come out of the other side of this the same.

If they made it out at all.

"You can't worry about me, Captain," said Porthos quietly. "You got enough to deal with."

"As the captain, I concern myself equally with all my men," replied Athos. He reached out and picked up the sword and handed it back to Porthos as he stood. "But I am still your friend." Porthos looked up at him, dark eyes expectant.

"S'that mean I'm cleared?"

"I need my strong right arm, don't I?"

Porthos' smile was wide and bright and it warmed Athos. Like it always did, when he didn't realize how cold he'd become.

"Yeah. You do."

 

 

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

 

Athos basked in the relative quiet at the edge of camp. Some things were just easier on the outside of a damn tent.

"My idea to have tradesmen are to stay behind?"

"Smart" said Porthos. "I like the idea of a place away from the front where we can count on supplies and haven."

"I'm glad you agree. I don't want to abandon this position entirely. At least for now." Porthos nodded, hands on his hips, as he surveyed the cattle as they were herded from their pen and out to a field. "The cattle, too. The last thing we need is to get trapped with no supplies. As long as these last, we've options."

"If soldiers are hungry, ain't nobody happy," said Porthos with a grin. "Ready to head back? Still got some things we should figure out before-." Porthos froze mid-step.

Athos turned, curious.

"Porthos?" He looked around, but there was only the lowing of cows and the pop of a whip as the handlers urged the cattle along.

Porthos was motionless, hands limp at his sides.

His face had gone blank.

"Porthos?" Athos held back, afraid of touching the big Musketeer and startling him. "What is it?"

Porthos' eyes were horribly empty.

The whip cracked again.

The whip.

"Porthos du Vallon!" he snapped in his best captain voice.

Nothing.

No flicker of comprehension or that he'd heard.

Athos couldn't even tell if he was breathing.

"No," murmured Athos, "no, no, no."

Athos had been worried when Porthos went missing. And then he'd been angry. So angry, at what they done, at what Porthos had experienced. It had colored his vision and he'd nearly lost sight of everything.

But now he was afraid.

Terrified in a way he hadn't been since all this began.

They couldn't do this again.

All the suffering.

Porthos had survived so much and come so far. He was almost himself.

Athos couldn't face more days and days of silence and isolation.

Not as the war truly loomed before them.

Athos couldn't lose him again.

He stepped as close as he could without touching, panic racing through his blood. "Porthos, you are safe. You are with us and and you are alright." He watched Porthos' face for any flinch, the tiniest movement. "There is no danger. You are no victim. You are a Musketeer, one of the finest. Clever and brave and I...and I need you to look at me…" Athos felt the tears threatening. " _Porthos, I need you._ "

And he did.

He'd stumbled without Porthos' steady support. Yes, he was the captain. It was hard and sometimes it was lonely, but that didn't mean he was alone. He understood better now. He was better because of Porthos and his experience. Because of d'Artagnan and his passion.

He couldn't do this.

"Porthos, please!"

Porthos blinked. He shook himself and looked around, confused, until he focused on Athos.

"Athos? What's wrong?" His hand was a welcome weight on Athos' shoulder.

Athos closed his eyes and breathed, suddenly exhausted. Let himself lean into Porthos' solid strength. Still so strong, even after all of this.

The hand slipped to his neck.

"Hey," rumbled Porthos, "what is it?" When Athos opened his eyes, Porthos' face was etched with concern.

"You were...gone. For a moment." Porthos frowned and blew out a harsh breath.

"Oh. Like before." Athos nodded. Porthos' jaw worked and he looked down at Athos. His fingers tightened ever so slightly at Athos' nape. "You're real. This is real."

It wasn't a question, but Athos nodded again.

"S'okay. I'm okay." He gave Athos an unsteady grin. "Let's get back."

He left his hand on Athos' neck.

For which Athos was very grateful.

 

 

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

 

D'Artagnan caught a glimpse of Athos as he hurried past his tent and skidded to a halt. He ducked his head in.

"What is it?" Athos looked up with a jerk.

"Nothing…" D'Artagnan stepped fully into the tent and dropped into the chair opposite Athos. The older man pursed his lips and finally went on. "I am uncertain whether Porthos should ride out with the regiment tomorrow." D'Artagnan frowned.

"I thought...he's says he's ready. Don't you trust him?"

"Implicitly. But it isn't about that. It's not something he can choose or...stop."

"What are you talking about?" asked d'Artagnan with a tilt of his head.

"We were walking the edges of the camp. Near the cattle. There was a whip crack and he froze. I don't mean it surprised him or distracted him. He was gone. A shell. Just like before."

D'Artagan shook off a shudder.

"For how long?"

"A few moments."

"You think it will happen again."

"Perhaps. And in the middle of a battle? He's a dead man," said Athos. "I could keep him back. Keep him safe. But he'd still die. Just slower. By inches. And hating me for it."

"He wouldn't."

"Perhaps not outright. But he would." D'Artagnan rubbed a hand over his face and sat back.

"He says he's ready," repeated d'Artagnan finally. Athos gave him a skeptical look. "Okay, fine, I say he's ready. Good enough?" Athos let out a long breath. He looked weary.

"It's my order, d'Artagnan. My decision."

"No it isn't. It's his. It always has been," d'Artagnan said softly. "Porthos has been a soldier longer than he's known you. You didn't put him here."

Athos looked at him with a calm, unreadable face.

"Very well," he said finally. D'Artagnan stood to leave, but paused as Athos spoke again. "Thank you, d'Artagnan."

D'Artagnan blinked and nodded quickly to cover his surprise.

"Of course, Captain."

 

 

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

 

Athos stepped out into a pink morning. The sun had not yet risen, but the camp was a bustle of activity.

And Porthos was waiting for him.

"Ready?" asked Athos quietly. Porthos' brow furrowed.

"Wasn't sure you'd still let me ride out. After what happened," said Porthos.

Athos looked at the man in front of him. Strong and capable and invaluable to him in every way. Shifting uneasily, afraid to being left behind again. Of being incapable of the job he lived for.

Being a leader wasn't about telling soldiers what to do.

Most of the time, they knew what to do.

It was about making them believe they could do it. That whatever you asked was possible. And that it was worth it.

He couldn't undermine d'Artagnan, who'd vouched for Porthos.

He couldn't tell Porthos he was alright and then hold him back.

Athos couldn't weaken the men who made him strong.

Even if he was afraid.

"I do not let you do anything, Porthos. I trust you. If you say you're ready, I believe you."

"I'm ready."

"Then inform the men that we're leaving within the hour. We've a war to fight." Porthos' grin was wolfish.

"Aye Captain."

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote one of these scenes at the very beginning.  
> I'm so glad it can finally see the light of day.


	7. Epilogue

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

 

**Three Years Later**

 

 

Porthos stopped.

The oppressive heat and the choking dust and the endless noise slipped away.

It was him.

Porthos couldn't remember much from the time he spent as a prisoner of the Spanish. Even years later, it remained a hazy jumble. It was probably for the best.

But across the field and through dozens of men, he was brutally clear.

Porthos knew that face.

"...Porthos."

He had seen it smiling at him in his nightmares.

"...what...don't…"

Here. Now.

After all of this.

"...is it…"

Firm pressure around his wrist had become painful.

"...Porthos!"

He pulled away, stumbling.

Athos stared at him with wide eyes. His empty hands held out low, like he was trying to gentle a spooked horse.

"Porthos? What is it?"

He shook his head, trying to clear it. He whipped around and looked again. The man was still there, hands bound, waiting in a line of captured Spanish.

"Who is that?" asked Athos quietly.

"He-" Porthos dragged in ragged breath. "It's him." Athos frowned.

"Who is he to-" Athos stopped. Utterly still.

And then his eyes went cold.

Porthos had seen Athos angry.

He'd seen him casually dispassionate.

But this was something else.

Ice and death.

Suddenly, Athos was moving, walking across the field at an even pace. It was terrifying how relaxed he looked.

Porthos had to stop him.

He ran to catch up and pulled Athos around.

"No."

"What?" Athos voice was smooth and calm and all the more unsettling for it.

"Captain-"

"I'll kill him."

"You can't."

"You'll find I can."

"You'll lose your command, your commission."

"I do not care."

"I do!"

"Damn command. And damn politics and diplomacy. I'm sick to death of them."

"You'll be imprisoned or hanged. For murder. You can't kill an unarmed prisoner without provocation."

"Happily."

"Yeah, 'cause being judge and executioner has sat so well with you in the past." Athos' face tightened.

"This is different."

"The war is good as done! You risk restarting somethin' we are blessed close to puttin' behind us, Athos."

"How do I walk away?" raged Athos, shaking, the cool shell cracking. "How do I let him live, Porthos, after what he did to you? I couldn't...I couldn't do _anything_ then. Now I can."

Porthos understood. He did. God knows what he'd be doing right now, rolls reversed. Hell itself wouldn't stop him. But he couldn't let Athos throw away everything he'd earned, his life and freedom.

The war had taken enough. He couldn't lose another brother.

"Am I alright?" Athos frowned at the redirection. Porthos stepped closer, lowering his head to Athos. "You kept sayin' I was fine. That I was alright. Am I or not?"

Athos voice was quiet, but fierce.

"You are better than fine. You are even stronger and faster and braver than you were before."

"He's on the losin' side of the war. He didn't get any information from me. He didn't break me. He failed at everythin' he tried." Porthos looked up to watch as the Spanish officer was led away. "Let him live with it."

A surprising grip pulled him down and Athos planted a rough kiss on his cheek.

When he straightened up, Athos was staring at him, eyes damp.

"I cannot understand you, Porthos du Vallon. I flounder in the face of a heart like yours."

He felt his cheeks heat, but he didn't look away from Athos.

"I want to go home, Athos. All of us." Athos let out a long breath.

"And so we shall."

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

 

 

He'd been careful.

The guards were Musketeers.

Seasoned men with undoubted loyalty.

Men who knew.

Knew who the man in the cell was.

What he'd done.

They silently opened the door as he approached.

Athos studied the man who stood in the center of the small, windowless room.

"Nearly three years ago, you captured one of my men. Tortured him." The Spaniard didn't look surprised.

"We were at war."

"And you think that absolves you?"

"I don't seek your absolution."

"You beat him. Whipped him. But he gave you nothing. You learned nothing from him. You did not kill him. You did not kill any of things that make him one of the finest men I know. Not his bravery. Not his kindness." Athos circled the prisoner. "He wants you to live. To remember and endure with your failure. Your failure with him. Your failure with the war."

"Temporary, I'm sure." Athos arched an eyebrow. "Come, señor. We both know there will always be another war."

Athos studied him a long moment and then nodded.

"You're probably right." Athos drew his sword.

The man finally looked nervous.

"You said he wished me to live."

"He does. But he is a far better man than I."

 

 

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

 

 

Athos shut the door behind him.

Alain and Thierry nodded.

The Spanish officer would disappear.

No one would ever be certain what happened to him.

Perhaps a clerical error.

If Athos had a moment's guilt, it was for being less than honest with Porthos.

But only that.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come find me on tumblr!
> 
> *screams and runs away*


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